


Maybe Spit Some Blood at the Camera (Just Stay Alive)

by Voidfish



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Delusions, Gen, Hallucinations, Hospitalization, Psychosis, Schizoaffective, Stanuary 2020, just a mention but wanna warn for it, psychotic ford pines, psychotic stan pines, schizoaffective author, schizoaffective stan pines, schizophrenic ford pines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:29:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28654272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Voidfish/pseuds/Voidfish
Summary: Stanuary 2020 Week 2: SacrificeWalking back to his freezing car, Stan saw a figure approaching. It was humanoid, roughly six foot, yet it hunched over, hands dragging on the ground. It had no skin or clothes - or maybe it did and they were also covered by the shadow wafting off it. Despite how far away it was Stan could see the gleaming white of its teeth. It should have freaked him out. It had, when he first saw them five years ago at twenty years old, but instead he now huffed and ignored it. Maybe he’d care if it lunged at him, but right now he just cared about getting out of the cold.
Relationships: Ford Pines & Stan Pines
Comments: 9
Kudos: 68
Collections: Stanuary





	Maybe Spit Some Blood at the Camera (Just Stay Alive)

**Author's Note:**

> So this fic is important to me for a lot of reasons. I started it in a journal while being hospitalized and wrote 6 of 7 pages of this in the hospital while people thought I was journaling. I wanted to write about the Pines family with my symptoms so I started this and combined it with the Stanuary prompts when they came out. I wrote this piece almost in its entirety before being diagnosed but as of writing this I can officially say that I've been diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder, which is what Stan has in this piece, although I have the depressive type and he has bipolar type.
> 
> Warnings in this piece for hospitalization mentions (briefly but still), mentions of suicide, low self worth, voices saying awful things and Bill committing medical abuse. All of the hallucinations but one are based entirely on things that I've experienced.

Stanley Pines took a long drag from his cigarette. It was a cold Minnesota winter, the kind that sapped all warmth and froze you to the bone, and he was in desperate need of shelter. He had six dollars and two pesos in his pocket - not enough for a good hotel, or even a bad one, but maybe he could break a window and sneak in somewhere. He released his breath, watching the way the smoke puffed and congregated before dissipating. 

Times like these he should have avoided all thoughts of Ford, but Stan thought of him anyway because he never was good at doing what he should. Stan thought of warm days on the beach, chasing each other through the water. He thought of building a certain boat, sweat pooling against his brows. He thought of love so hot it burned.

Walking back to his freezing car, Stan saw a figure approaching. It was humanoid, roughly six foot, yet it hunched over, hands dragging on the ground. It had no skin or clothes - or maybe it did and they were also covered by the shadow wafting off it. Despite how far away it was Stan could see the gleaming white of its teeth. It should have freaked him out. It had, when he first saw them five years ago at twenty years old, but instead he now huffed and ignored it. Maybe he’d care if the fucker lunged at him, but right now he just cared about getting out of the cold.

It had gotten real bad at twenty one. Stan didn’t remember much of 1971, but the police had managed to catch him “loitering” outside of a gas station talking to himself and got worried enough to send him to the ward. He couldn’t say how the month inside the facility was, but the meds they got him on had helped. The side effects were awful though, the sleepiness, the shaky hands, the apathy. The weight gain was the least of his worries. But he had taken the meds when he could afford them. Anything was better than staying up three nights in a row armed with a baseball bat, thinking that folks he had seen die were still after him. Anything was better than seeing Ford.

He had been in Mexico when he first saw him. Stan should’ve known something was wrong by the outfit Ford was wearing - the same clothing as the day Stan had been kicked out. Stan had been at a bodyguard gig trying to focus on the money he’d get to buy some food for once when a familiar yellow-shirted bespectacled figure looked his way from the crowd. “Ford?” He had whispered, voice filled with stupid hope. Lou behind him gave him a glare, and when Stan looked back into the crowd Ford had disappeared.

He was in Texas when Ford talked back to him. He was in a shitty motel, patching up a shittier gunshot wound, when a figure appeared behind him. It had been months since he first saw Ford, and Stan was almost used to this game by now. Stan whipped around, hissing in pain as his shoulder got jostled. “Ford, what the hell are you doing here?”

“You’re a disappointment.” Ford kept moving forward but his stony eyes were stuck on Stan. His voice was quivering with white hot rage and his fists were balled up. Stan had literally just been shot and yet this was somehow more wounding. “Everyone would be better if you just stayed dead.”

“Ford,” Stan whispered. He went into a boxer’s stance without even realizing, lowering his fists after noticing. “I don’t want to fight you.” And then, starting with his feet and moving upwards, Ford vanished.

Stan watched the disappearance in a mix of fear and amazement. Ford’s expression never wavered, his face locked in hatred until even that disappeared too.

After the apparition vanished Stan went around the room, looking for any evidence someone else had been there, ignoring the sting in his shoulder. Once it was clear it had been a hallucination - what the fuck - he fixed up his shoulder, applying peroxide with a whimper of what he pretended was just pain. And then, when it hurt like a bitch but he probably wouldn’t die of an infection, Stan braced himself for the walk to the payphone near the motel and called Ford’s apartment. He was staying in an upperclassmen hall funded by the college, Ma had told him with pride while giving Stan the number.

There was the sound of the phone ringing before some picked up. “Can I help you?” A familiar voice asked. Stan breathed out a sigh of relief. Ford. Ford, who was in Pennsylvania right now, not Texas, Ford who hated him, sure, but would never say those things...right? 

He hung up and left Texas that night.

It had gotten worse after that, the figures following him and the sounds of people laughing, of people jeering at him. And the voices, too, were horrible, random people telling him how terrible a person he was. None of them had been as bad as seeing Ford, though. He had gotten used to other people telling him how worthless he was, but it hurt the worst to hear it from Ford.

He tried not to let it bother him. Tried not to let anything hurt him. But sometimes, late at night in a shitty motel with a scratchy blanket tossed over him, it still hit deep. He knew he was worthless, why the fuck did everyone have to remind him?

Stanley Pines raised his hood, shoved his hands into his pockets, and fought back against both the cold and his mind.

***

Standing outside Ford’s home, a crossbow trained at him, Stan knew that something was wrong. It was more than just the imminent danger he was in that tipped him off - it was the state of Ford as a whole. He was shaking like a leaf, dark bags circling under his eyes and stains coming off his filthy clothing that he clearly hadn’t changed in weeks. His hair was tousled, strands sticking up in random places and clearly unkempt. When he gestured for Stan to follow him his sleeve dipped, showing the gleaming white of bandages on his wrists and upper arms. The most distressing, however, was the crazed look in his eyes. It reminded Stan of a dog caught in a bear trap, of a deer bleeding out on the side of the road. It reminded Stan of himself, and shit, wasn’t that terrifying.

Stan had seen guys like this hopped up on drugs before, he’d been told he even looked this way before. He was ready to ask Ford where his stash was to flush it when the older twin turned the head of a skeleton around with a fearful glance and gestured again for Stan to follow, and quickly. Ford wasn’t just out of it, wasn’t just high as a kite or suffering from withdrawal, he realized. Ford was fucking terrified for his life, he was paranoid, he was one step from the edge. Stan wanted to reach out and tell him that it was going to be okay, that they would figure this out together. But every step he moved forward, hands raised, ready to help, Ford moved backwards, keeping the distance between them. And that distance continued to grow and grow, until Stan stood in front of a deactivating portal, achingly alone. 

***

Stan beat a fist against the metal of the control panel. “Goddammit!” He cried out.

“Why do you even try?” A voice said.

“Shut the fuck up,” Stan growled in reply. It had been his medicine or the electricity this month and it had been a no-brainer which to choose. Even still, it was frustrating to spend time fighting figments of his imagination when he should be getting Ford back. But if Stan was anything he was stubborn, and so was his illness.

“You don’t deserve to be here.” Another voice said.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Stan sighed. He ran a grease soaked hand across his face. He wasn’t any closer to opening the portal and was getting dangerously low on money. He was trying to give tours, but opening a business wasn’t easy, especially as he was falling apart each night trying to get everything back to the way it should be. Still, he couldn’t give up, couldn’t slow down, because this wasn’t just his life on the line - it was Ford’s, too.

If he was honest, which he seldom was, Stan was happy not to take his medicine in the hope that he would see Ford again. It may have been a hallucination, but it looked just like him. It may have told Stan he deserved to die, but it spoke it in Ford’s voice. But of course, just when he needed it, the hallucination never showed up.

Stan had a list of things he’d say to Ford next time he saw him. He’d slap him, he’d call him an idiot, he’d yell at him for even building a doomsday device in his basement to begin with, what the fuck, Ford?

He’d hold him and never let him go.

Stan stayed up with voices and no Ford for that night and several after.

***

Stan was a master at hiding and lying, even when he no longer realized it. There were things he instinctively kept close to himself after all these years on the run. There were plenty of people who would kill to have information like that on him and, well, old habits die hard. He hadn’t even realized there was a part of his life he hadn’t shared with Ford until after they set sail.

“Stanley,” Ford called from below deck. He had been sorting through their medicine cabinets while Stan did dishes. They were stocking up in port soon and wanted to make sure they had everything they needed for a few more months at sea. Stan had given it no mind and had cleared Ford to look through his drawer as well while he cleaned up. Clearly, by Ford’s tone, he should have given it more thought. He racked his head for what could cause the older twin this much concern but came up with nothing. Ford knew about his dentures, his hearing aids, his pills for blood pressure, migraines, and arthritis. He knew about his depression, about the bipolar, about… 

Ford raced up the stairs, his salt and pepper hair rustled and eyes wide and almost owlish. He seemed steady, not in any sort of panic or flashback, but definetly confused about something. “Stanley, may I ask you a few questions about something that I found?” Ford asked meekly. 

If there was one thing Stan hated about his new relationship with Ford it was the other man’s new sensitivity. Ford felt bad about how he had treated Stan in the past and about his failings as a brother and in trying to be better was hypersensitive to his tone and actions now. Stan appreciated the effort, but all he really wanted was his brother back, faults and pride and thoughtless comments and all. Now his brother was becoming anxious, a question clearly on the tip of his tongue.

“Spill it, poindexter,” Stan said. “Whatever you have to ask, i won’t be offended. Just...say it.”

“You’re supposed to be taking 40mg of Geodon twice a day,” Ford said.

The pieces fell in place. “Ford,” Stan started, a hand coming up to rest on the other’s shoulder. Ford expertly dodged it and continued.

“You never told me about this medication, which I’m trying not to be mad about. But I’ve only ever seen you taking medication with dinner, and that concerns me.”

Stan paused, a smile fighting to bloom across his face. “Ford, are you telling me you’re more worried about when I’m taking meds than what I’m taking?”   
  
Ford huffed. “Of course I’m worried, you knucklehead. This is your health we’re talking about. I’m never going to judge you for taking medicine, but I will judge you for taking it wrong.”

“Alright, alright,” Stan laughed. “I get it. I keep forgetting to take the morning dose, but I’m sure you’ll start reminding me now that you know.” Stan sat down at the kitchen table.

“Damn right I will,” Ford agreed, sitting beside him and running a hand over their ragged table. It had many notches and scratches on it, but that just made it feel even more like home. “Did you really think I’d be mad or think less of you for taking an antipsychotic?”   


Stan winced. “Ah, nothing against you. I just...people usually aren’t too understanding about it. And should’ve realized you’d figure out what it was.”

“Well, I am getting better at using the internet,” Ford said, chuckling lightly. “But, er, with my own struggles with mental health it’d be hypocritical of me to judge.” Ford had begun the process of getting medicine and therapy in this dimension for the first time since the 1980s. It was complicated, of course, by not having a legal identity anymore and by his major trauma being supernatural in nature, but Stan was still proud of him for starting the process.

“I guess,” Stan sighed. “You’re not gonna ask me why I’m taking the meds?”

“Not unless you want me too,” Ford assured. “I’m curious, of course, but in the end it’s your choice and your privacy.”

Stan ran a hand through his hair. “I appreciate it. You, uh, remember how I told you about my drifter days and how I wasn’t doing too well?” Ford nodded, guilt flashing on his face. “Well, uh, I left out some of the details. The hallucinations, the paranoia, the thinking things that just weren’t true. It ended with me in the psych ward where they put me on meds. Nasty stuff, but it got the job done. When I got to Gravity Falls and realized it was gonna be a...long stay, I went without meds for a while. It started getting bad again, though, so I went to the doctor. They put me on some other meds, and then in 2005 they put me on this shit instead, and the rest is history.”

Ford just looked at him for a minute before nodding. “I’m glad you were able to get help, Stanley. That’s not something that’s easy to do. I know this sounds strange but if you wouldn’t mind following me, I have something to show you.”

“Uh...sure.” Stan stood and followed Ford through the cabin into the bedroom.

Ford started digging through his desk drawer. “It should be somewhere here - Aha!” He pulled out a bottle and syringe, holding it out. He looked nervous and almost ashamed of something.

“Ford, I have no idea what that is,” Stan admitted.

Ford blinked. “Oh, of course. It’s alien made, so I’m not sure what specific medicine it’s the equivalent of exactly, but it’s an antipsychotic of sorts.” Stan tried his best to control his jaw from dropping. He failed. “During college I had what we’ll call an episode, and they put me on medicine. I stopped taking them in 1982 when things got bad. One of the more similar dimensions to ours had injections that were helpful. I only need to take them once a month, but they kept me sharp and out of danger so I was able to fight Cipher. I’ve been stocking up and making adjustments in each dimension since.”

Stan blinked, then laughed. “Well, shit.”

“Well, shit,” Ford agreed, sitting down on the bottom bunk of the bed. Stan sat down too. “How could I be mad at you for having psychosis when I, myself, am schizophrenic?”

“Schizoaffective bipolar type,” Stan admitted. It felt weird to say out loud, but good. It felt honest. “Guess we really are twins. You know, it makes a lot of sense you were having a psychotic episode when we saw each other again in the eighties. At the time I thought it was drugs, and after I learned more I figured it was sleep deprivation or Bill.”   
  
Ford sighed. “It was all three. Bill convinced me to stop taking my medicine, said it was slowing me down, and then after his betrayal I didn’t trust the meds or anything else. But I also think he made it worse, and lack of sleep certainly didn’t help.”

“Yeah, I’ve had plenty of sleepless nights,” Stan said, “whether from mania or fear or who knows what.”

“Or from working on the portal,” Ford said, frowning. “From sabotaging your time, your safety, your health, for me.”

Stan tried to think of what to say. He thought of saying that he never did those things but they both knew it was a lie. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat,” Stan finally said. “I’d do anything to have you here.”

Ford smiled, although it was a bittersweet smile. “I appreciate that,” he said, “and I’m learning to be okay with it. I just wish I’d done more for you.”

“Hey, you’ve done plenty. You’re sailing around the world with me, you spent months making sure I was okay when my memories got erased -”

“Another thing that I caused.” Ford said. “Another sacrifice I forced you to make.”

“I did it myself.” Stan reminded him. “I made my choice. I’d make it again.”

“I know,” Ford admitted breathing out. He looked up at the ceiling, counting floorboards above them. “I just...figuring out you were fighting something else and still came, still dropped everything for me, I don’t know how I’m ever going to make it up to you.”

“Be my brother,” Stan quickly interjected. “That’s enough, I promise. That’s all I wanted.”

Ford smiled. “I’d be honored to.”

“Besides,” Stan said, “I’ve got a lot of respect for you too, knowing you were fighting a psychotic episode when we uh, met again, let’s call it. Fighting a demon is hard enough. Fighting a demon when you don’t know what’s up and what’s down?” Stan whistled.

Ford laughed. “Fighting is a kind description of it. I was hitting everything around me hoping something landed.”

“No shame in that.” Stan said. “And it worked in the end.”  _ Everything worked in the end _ , he tried to say.  _ We’re okay. _

Ford smiled, reading between the lines. “Yes, yes it did.”  _ Yes, we are. _

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone has questions or comments I appreciate them, this is a super personal piece so I'm a little bit nervous about posting it. You can find me at @schizophrenicfordpines on tumblr, appropriately enough!


End file.
